


Erukyermë

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Tear-jerker, Subjects - Culture(s), Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2003-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just before the fall of Numenor, a family of the Faithful try to escape the King's Men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eruhantalë

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
_“All is passing_  
God alone abiding  
God alone sustaining”   
**\- Tony Feany**   


*******

_Hurry… Hurry!_

She mutters desperately to herself, eyes darting from doorway to the window, hands frantically pushing clothes and other personal items into a rucksack.

Her heart is beating, faster than the wings of a butterfly. She is no fool. She can hear the trumpets far off of the King’s Men and she has heard the warning calls ring in their small village. She knew that this would happen, sooner or later. Despite her husband’s assurances to their daughter, she knew that things were not as fine as he deemed. She knows that this is their turn.

They are coming.

"Tálith, are you ready?"

Her eyes look to the doorway and she sees her husband walking through it, sheathing a short sword at his side. She knows he is not one for violence, he never was, but still, he kept that flimsy blade in their house -- these were dangerous times. She knows that he has probably never wielded it against another man before. She knows there is a possibility that he will have to within mere minutes.

"Yea," she answers him, pushing a thin sheet that would offer little warmth into the rucksack. "Are you ready?"

His face hardens and his hand goes down to grasp the hilt of the blade.  
"Yea."

For all the fear in her, she cannot not help but smile sorrowfully.

Beyond the door, further into the house, there is a crash followed shortly by a scream that she knows only too well.

" _Ammê,_ they are here!" cries the young voice of their daughter.

At once both she and her husband run out of their bedroom into the main room of the house.

Before she looks down to the frightened face of her daughter hugging her waist, she sees the stone which has been thrown through their window. Outside the cracked glass, there are the screams of women and the cries of children, mingling with the smell of burning houses and the light of bright flames devouring other houses in their small village.

Loud trumpet calls ring through the night above any scream or cry, and the loud voice of shouting men--King’s Men--follow.

Her husband turns to her and she sees, for the first time in all these days of darkness, fear within his eyes.

"Take Mírima and run!" he shouts, pushing the rucksack into her hand.

"Run! No, I will not leave you here!" she says angrily with a frown.

Another scream comes from the world outside their lowly house and she sees a woman, a neighbor and a mother like herself, dragged from her burning house against her will by a large, burly man. He strikes her on the head and she falls limply in his arms and is dragged to a carriage where other bodies of live people are piled one atop of another.

Beneath her, her daughter hugs tightly. She feels her child’s tears upon her skin.

"You must run! Flee from the back door, I shall stay here and help the others. You must go on and get onto a ship quickly," her husband says quickly bending down and embracing their daughter tightly.

"Do not be foolish, Huor! I will not leave you alone to be burned at the temple. We must stay together if we wish to stay alive!" she shouts.

" _Ammê,_ please do not get angry now," her daughter whimpers.

"Nay heart, _ammê_ is not angry," Huor says gently, lifting their daughter off the ground and kissing her cheek. He carries their daughter down to the end of the house where he opens the back door. Their house is the last of the village and behind they can see nothing but the red shadow of flames in the darkness.

"Where are you taking her, Huor?" Tálith says as she follows her husband and daughter.

"Now, my love, I want you to take _ammê_ down to the docks and get onto Lord Anárion’s ship," her husband says to their daughter, as he sets her down on her feet and ignores Tálith. "All you have to do is tell anyone who questions you that you are of the Faithful and tell that person my name. Take your mother to the ship Mírima and do not get off it. I promise you I will meet you there ere the sun rises. Do you understand me?"

"Yea, _attû_ ," the little girl whispers, more tears slipping from her eyes.

Huor stands up straight and looks at his wife.  
"If you will not run for me or for your own safety, then for the sake of your daughter, run," he says to her briskly.

She looks into his grey eyes. She knows he is right. It does not matter if either of them is burned upon the altar, but their daughter…no, Tálith cannot let that happen.

"Then I will see you on the ship ere the sun rises?" she asks, false hope plaguing her heart.

"Yea, you shall," he replies and he quickly kisses and embraces her as the screams become louder and the threat of being discovered higher. "Now run! Run as fast as you can. Do not turn back and do not stop till you are at the ships. There are nine there, any one will harbour you."

She nods and kisses her husband once more. She hears their front door fall to the floor by the strength of some other man.

"By order of the Lord Annatar, come forth rebels!" booms the voice of the intruder.

"Run!" her husband shouts, pushing her out of the door. Without another thought she does as he says, taking Mírima’s hand and clutching her rucksack.

It does not them long to get into the trees, but though they are under cover, they do not stop running.

"Hurry my love!" she says desperately, as they run through the trunks and over the rain sodden undergrowth.

A hunted animal is exactly how she feels at that moment as she runs as well as she can with the rucksack and her daughter, who struggles to keep up. Despite her husband’s warnings she cannot help it, and looks back through the trees at the burning village. She hears the cries of her folk…she knows that those heavy footfalls that trail them are not her imagination.

The voice of someone shouting echoes through the trees.

"Oi, they’re escaping to the woods!"

The hunted-animal feeling increases tenfold at the sound of the man’s voice. Many other shouts of reply follow and soon enough little embers of fire are emerging from the furnace of houses to seek them out.

Mírima struggles on alongside her, panting heavily and taking great sniffs alongside the tears.

"Quickly love. Just keep running and we shall get to the ships," Tálith whispers encouragingly.

Mírima takes a deep gulp of air and exhales with a small sob, nodding to her mother with the little determination the child can muster.

"We will see _attû_ again won’t we?" she sniffles breathlessly.

Tálith feels a tug at her heartstrings. Too young, she thinks bitterly. Her child and all the other children of the Faithful are all too young to suffer or to realise the situation of their becoming.

"Perhaps child," she answers running over twisted roots of great trees, "but you will have no chance of seeing him again if you do not hurry. Remember he said that he shall meet us again upon the ship of Anárion. We must make haste, else we shall not meet your father."

Again Mírima nods and Tálith sees in the shadows of the night and the dim light of the moon, a small glint of courage in the child’s eyes.

They are now running uphill and she knows that a little after that climb they will reach the waters.  
Then it is only a matter of running along the coastline towards the ships and boarding one of the nine, which are waiting for them. The only problem is that the coast has no sheltering. She will have to carry her daughter and run as fast as she can before she is sighted. If she is, then she will have no choice but to run to their death in the sea, or be caught by the King’s men, dying anyway.

She lets go of Mírima’s hand so they can both get up the hill with ease. They near the top, when they turn their heads and look down behind them. What they see are many dozens of little flamed torches, making their way through the trees in search of them and other runaways.

Tálith sees the look of terror upon her child’s face but before she can do anything, Mírima has opened her mouth and shrieked loudly--loud enough for all wandering in the trees to hear.

At once there is a roar of reaction from the men.

"There they are!"

"Filthy Faithful Rodents!"

"Hurry and seize them, we mustn’t allow any to get away."

"They will reach the ships and warn Elendil of our coming! Hurry! Let none escape!"

Tálith looks behind her and the little embers now swarm together and head towards them.

"Run Mírima!" she cries, pushing her daughter onward. Her voice is almost as loud as her daughter’s first scream, but it does not matter anymore. The King’s Men know where they are. Tálith knows that soon she and her daughter will be found by them. They are coming.

"Quickly, run!"

Their feet pound on the forest floor as hard as their hearts thump at their chests with anxiety. More screams ring out from behind them, not of the King’s Men, but of woman and children, their friends and neighbours. Mírima’s scream has not only revealed their location, but that of others’ as well.

" _Ammê_ I can’t run anymore…" Mírima is slipping behind her.

Tálith looks to her weary daughter. There are tears in her eyes and she can barely stand, let alone run any further.

"Don’t be silly Mírima! You have to run!" she shouts harshly at her daughter. She knows that she should not take her own fear and weariness out on her daughter, but now is no time for guilt.

"I can’t! Please _ammê_ …"

The sound of feet slipping in dry grass comes to her ears and then something heavy falls to the ground behind her.

She turns; Mírima is on her knees, crying and holding herself.  
  
"Mírima!" she shrieks angrily, "Get up you fool!" Her fear and weariness easily turns into anger.

She runs to her daughter and tries to lift Mírima to her feet, cursing with furious desperation.

"I can’t _ammê_ , I can’t run any more," Mírima cries, holding her mother.

Tálith looks behind her daughter; the flames are coming closer. She curses. They have to keep running or else they will be caught. She looks down to the sobbing Mírima. She will have to carry her daughter.

"Come on, then, quickly," she says, somewhat softer than before and lifts her daughter. Mírima’s arms tighten around her neck and her head buries in Tálith’s dress. She can feel her daughter tears soaking through and meeting the skin over her collarbones as she begins to run again.

Mírima is small and underweight for her age, but she is still heavy though, and weighs Tálith down. She cannot run as fast as she could before and it becomes harder to get over the steep hills.

Her arms are tight around her daughter, shielding, fearfully. Mírima’s hair is flying before her eyes from their speed.

Her pace becomes slower and slower with each step she takes as the weight of her daughter weighs her down. Soon Tálith is too tired to run properly and she staggers, trying to move as fast as she can. With each step she takes, the weight of the child in her arms seems to became heavier and heavier. She trips over the roots, once, twice - but she does not fall.

She hears horses. Mens’ shouts too. There are not so many screams in the background anymore. A few, yes, but not as much as there was. She wonders what has happened. Are they all dead? No, they are not dead. Only silenced. But it would only take a cart ride to Armenelos to make them dead.

She sees a silver glow behind the trees, far off in the distance as they run downhill. She sees and she has hope. The silver is the reflection of the night sky on the sea and the lights of the harbour. They are close now to the beach. She can then run freely upon the sand; see the ships, glistening with their lamps as a beacon of light, before her and the King’s Men, behind. There will probably be guards set by Elendilabout the coast to keep watch. They will help Mírima and her, protect them from the King’s Men, and take them upon their Lord’s ship to safety.

Her lips tremble with the threat of tears of joy. She kisses Mírima’s head and grasps her tighter, running faster with the nourishment of hope coursing through her veins.

"Light," she hears Mírima murmur.

"Yes, love, light. We are almost there," she pants.

"Light," Mírima whispers again.

Tálith ignores her daughter this time and continues running. Mírima must be shocked at the sight of the moonlight and too happy with hope to speak sanely.

"Lights," Mírima says again. This time her voice is louder.

The child’s hands begin to shake furiously at her mother’s shoulders.  
"Lights!" she shrieks now, "Lights! They are here, _ammê_! They have found us! Run, RUN!"

Tálith looks behind them. Light and shadows chase them.

" _Ammê_ , run, run!"

She tries harder than ever to run faster. Mírima is shrieking and clutching dangerously tight at her neck, shaking her. Mírima’s body begins to slip in her grasp.

" _Ammê, ammê_ please! Run faster, faster! They are coming! They will take us!" Mírima cries.

"I am trying!" Tálith screams at her daughter.

She hears their footsteps, their grunts, and their horses behind.

"Please _ammê_ , you must run!"

The silver light, the reflection of the ocean; they are closer. She can see fragments of the glittering sea between large trunks. Where are Elendil’s men? Where is her aid, her protectors from these evil men? There is no one here for them, no one to save her and her daughter.

"Eru!" she cries, "Eru, have mercy upon us!"

There is laughter from the men behind her.

" _Ammê! Ammê!_ They’re here, _ammê_!" Mírima cries, jumping in her arms and gripping her clothes. " _Ammê! Ammê!_ "

Her screams strangle Tálith’s heart. She has never heard her daughter scream with so much fear.

" _Ammê, ammê!_ "

Too late.

She feels a fist tighten at her hair and the man’s hand wrenches it painfully. Tálith falls to the ground at the man’s feet, and drops Mírima to the floor.

She scrambles to her knees and beats at the man with her fists, trying to ward him off. He grabs her hair at the roots and slaps her face hard.

" _Ammê!_ " Mírima is screaming behind her.

She painfully manages to turn her head to her daughter. Another man has come and laid hands on  
Mírima. He lifts her easily off her feet, despite Mírima’s struggles.

A poisonous rage flows through Tálith’s veins.

"Release her!" she screams.

She tries to reach for Mírima, but the other man has his arms around her. She struggles against him and her fist meets with his face. There is blood on her hand and it splutters from the man’s nose.

"Bloody dog!" he shouts angrily and his own fist flies, first to Tálith’s face, then to her stomach.

Tálith is on the ground; there are tears mixed with blood. She hears Mírima’s screams but she cannot help her daughter. The man is there, swearing at her and beating her.

"Mírima run!" she manages to scream in her pain. He kicks her mouth and her lips are numb. She can taste the blood oozing down her throat. She tries to shield herself, to roll into a ball, but it is no use.

He grabs the collar of her dress and lifts her to her feet swearing some more. Through the blood, she sees Mírima struggling against the other man. He has a sword. Other embers she sees too – more men.

With large effort and little effect she hits the man who has hold of her. He simply throws her against the tree, making sure her head hits it hard.

She tries to hold herself up, clutching to him as they struggle. She is only a woman, only a housewife whose hands are used to weaving rough wool and cotton, cooking food and raising a child. She has no strength against a man who is trained to hold people like her captive, who enjoys beating people to pulp. Compared to him she is but a rabbit in the clutches of a bear.

"Mírima…" she gasps painfully, blood coming from her mouth. She has bitten her tongue and she feels like she might choke or suffocate on her own blood.

"Quiet you!" he shouts and he knees her this time in the stomach.

She falls forward towards him and he grasps her tight. She sees the dagger in his hand and she tightens her muscles, expecting the blade to be driven through. Resistance, at least to make her death hard upon his behalf.

He doesn’t do it though. He pushes her back against the tree, holding her firmly by the neck and with the dagger, he cuts a narrow slit through her clothes, right down the centre, from the hollow at her neck to the hollow of her navel.

There is a malicious glint in his eyes.  
"I hear you women enjoy pleasuring men."

She feels sick and wants to vomit. The blood is warm and it oozes down her throat. Her head is spinning and she smells death and blood. She hears Mírima crying, screaming for her.

She has to help her daughter, set her free, and lead her to safety so she will not be burned at the altar.

The man comes closer, but she punches him hard on his groin.

He yelps and falls to the ground, curling in a ball and swearing. She takes his sword and tries to run to where Mírima is but she is too dizzy and there is too much blood everywhere. She stumbles and the world spins. Mírima screams louder.

"Please! Please, save me! _Ammê_ , please – don’t touch me!"

There are little lights everywhere, flames and shouts. One by one she sees more men emerging from the darkness with sneers and swords.

She hears the horses and she knows they are surrounded. But Mírima is screaming and she cannot give up while she is yet alive. She must fight for her daughter, be a true mother. She must fight until the end, at last until she is either dead or broken, left for the King’s Men to take.

"Mírima!" she shouts. Mírima cries aloud in reply.

Tálith is crying too. She wishes she could help, but how? She is only a woman, only a mother who cannot defend herself.

She wipes blood away from her face and tries to focus, thrashing the blade at whoever dares come close to her. She sees Mírima now but the men try and stop her, holding her back, grasping her arms.

There is a horse’s cry and out of the shadows jolts a dark chestnut horse. Tálith knows that they are dead now, both she and Mírima. They cannot defend themselves against men let alone riders.

But no, the rider is not of the King’s Men. He is the stable boy who works for Azrubêl, who tends the man’s horses.

Azrubêl’s horse lifts its legs menacingly and charges at the other men. The boy calls to her, telling her to get onto the horse so they can flee together.

The King’s Men immediately get hold of her.

"You aren’t going anywhere my pretty," one of them growls in her ear. It is the man she hit in the groin.

She struggles and she cries to the boy for help. He tries to help her break free but it is no use. The  
King’s Men swipe at his horse and it rears up in fear.

Tálith knows that her prayer has been answered, that the One has sent this boy to them. Not for her, but for Mírima.

Tálith sees Mírima struggling; she is bowed down to the floor by the men. The boy does not see her, or takes no notice of her, the little underweight girl in ties. But Tálith sees her daughter and her daughter is all that needs to be protected.

She looks to the boy.  
" _Kyernyél, as yendénya nornora an i ciryar!_ " she shouts, loud and clear.

The elven tongue had long ago been forbidden, but she had been taught in secret and so have all children. The King’s Men don’t know what she is saying. The one holding her laughs, thinking that she is saying another prayer to her God, who will not heed.

Mírima hears what Tálith says and she screams.  
" _Ammê_ no!" she cries struggling against the men’s grips on her. "Not without my _ammê_ ," she screeches looking at the shadowed horse.

The boy has heard her too and he sees Mírima now. He understands, and grasping his flimsy sword he charges to where Mírima is. The Men try to withstand him, slashing with their swords, but three men are no match for the crazed horse.

Then Tálith sees it, the boy, as he bends over and easily plucks Mírima off the forest floor, setting her before him on the horse. For a moment, her eyes meet with her daughter’s for a last time. There is a desperate look in Mírima’s tear filled eyes, desperation and fear.

She screams louder than she ever has, reaching her arms out for her mother and kicking at the horse and the boy. Her kicking only urges the horse forward and Tálith watches as the boy, with her daughter screaming frantically before him, ride off into the dark of the forest, bearing the most precious gift she has ever been given.

The voice of her daughter screaming ‘Ammê’ echoes through her head above the Men’s yelling as they run after the boy and Mírima.

Tálith doesn’t suppose she will see Mírima again nor hear her voice or feel her little hugs. But she has done all that she can do as a mother, it is now up to the boy to save her daughter.

She willingly now gives up and falls into the man’s clutches. There is no need to resist; she has already signed her death by saving her daughter's life.

But she would rather not cry now and think of the pain to come and the pain there is. She kicks the man hard, hard enough to anger him. He knocks her head against the trunk of a tree, weary of her disobeying.

Tálith’s head is spinning and slowly she lets the sight of her home and the memories of her life melt into the darkness of unconsciousness.

They dump her onto the cart with the other bodies. They too are near the edge of unconsciousness and few move or struggle.

Resisting with heavy lids, Tálith can see the night sky, and she sees the star of Eärendil, - Gil-Estel, - the Star of Hope. A small, somnolent smile comes to her lips, inspired by the irony.

The heirs of Gil-Estel had fallen long ago. The Land of the Star is now a corrupt place and the spirit of the Edain, who first set foot upon the Isle, now only exists in the handful of Faithful…the Faithful that are being carted off to Armenelos as an offering.

But Tálith has no need to fear. She has said her prayer to Eru and has trust that her daughter will be delivered from this evil.

The people beneath her tremble and shudder with the cart as the horses pull it over the rocky road.

Her last view is the deep blue eyes of a man who is beside her. He is less injured than she is and he smiles tenderly and takes her hand, which lies limp in his. The dead only have the dead as company.

She is still smiling as she closes her eyes, whispering inaudibly to any ear that would strain to hear her. " _Hantalyë Ilúvattû._ "

To the First born, Eru Ilúvattû gives the span of all Time. Immortal they are and to the circles of Arda they are bound forever until it’s unmaking. Death, though, is the fate given to the Second Born, the gift of release from the world.

While the sons of Kings long lived discontented with their gift, Tálith has been taught otherwise and she sees death as what it is: a gift from Eru, rather than a curse. Alone in her darkness, in an outer void of her own mind, Tálith knows that she is only too eager to receive her gift.

*******

**Notes:**

_ammê_ \- (Adûnaic) Mother  
 _attû_ – (Adûnaic) Father  
 _Kyernyél_ , as yendénya nornora an i ciryar!- (Q.) Please, tale my daughter and run to the ships.  
 _Hantalyë_ – (Q.) Thank you

**Story title:** _Erukyermë_ – (Q.) ‘Prayer to Eru’  
 **Chapter title:** _Eruhantalë_ – (Q.) ‘Thanksgiving to Eru’


	2. Erukyermë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just before the fall of Numenor, a family of the Faithful try to escape the King's Men.

  
The cruel wind bites harshly at her nose and mauls at her ears. Her hair whips at her face and neck, her eyes sting and burn from the salt of tears.

She does not want to be here. She wants nothing to do with these people. Home is all she wants. Home, family, warmth and security. She has none of these anymore.

“What is your name?”

She turns her head and looks at the boy standing beside her. He is a sturdy lad, around the age of fifteen, with clear eyes, dark hair and tanned features, from hard days of work in the sun. She had seen him around the village before, working with the horses and tending them. She knows that she should be grateful to him, a kind soul amid the cruel. Instead, she cannot help but hate him to her utter depths. She needs to place the blame on someone, so she will make him guilty, at least in her mind.

He searches her face for an answer and does not see the malice within her heart. She wishes the King’s Men would come and do something to him.

“Mírima,” she answers, turning her head back to the shore, which is far off in the distance.

“My name is Zimrukhâd,” he continues.

Mírima turns her head further away, to let him know she does not want to talk to him anymore. He does not get her point.

“I do not suppose you have ever seen any of the Fair folk before, have you? The Elves?”

Of course she hasn’t seen any elves. She is only nine and the elves only came to the Isle in secret, everyone knows that.

There is a twitching anger within her. Mírima wishes she could throw Zimrukhâd overboard and cast him into the reeling seas; let him know what it feels like to have someone take charge of your life without any mercy.

“No, I have not seen any.”

He nods, rubbing his hands together for warmth and looking up at the overcast sky.

“Well, I have heard that perhaps sometime soon we will all be able to see them,” he says.

Looking up at the clouds too, Mírima doesn’t reply to him. She thinks Zimrukhâd is a fool with foolish dreams and desires.

There are dark clouds that block most of the sky. It is once again a blood colour, as it has been for the past days. Mírima doesn’t know what the time is. There is no sun, yet it is not quite dark. You lose track of time when you are being swallowed and regurgitated by the terrors Fate. Mírima closes her eyes and thinks back over what has happened since she had left her mother in the woods.

They had reached the ships in the harbour and had been accepted onto one of the smaller ones, Zimrukhâd’s horse (or rather Azrubêl’s horse) was allowed on board as well. Mírima then heard Zimrukhâd talking to an older man who questioned him, and she learned that he was an orphan from the town of Nindamos. He came to Rómenna over a year ago and had since been working for Azrubêl.

Then, as the boy had spoken, the King’s Men came to the shore to take more of the Faithful. The man questioning Zimrukhâd had left them to help the other mariners, and ships left the shore before anyone could be claimed.

Mírima opens her eyes again. Zimrukhâd hasn’t left her since the ship was anchored again into the sea, asking her if she was all right, and offering her food and drink. _He does not understand how I feel, the stupid boy,_ she thinks. _He has never known the true meaning of family, so he can never understand me._

 

“Mírima…do you know if there is anyone on this ship, or perhaps one of the others…someone who will look after you?” he asks, slowly, after their few moments of silence, listening to the thunderous sounds.

Mírima’s lips are tightly pursed together before she answers him.

“There is none.”

Mirima knows the truth. Perhaps she was a child when she was driven from her house, but she is not that child anymore. She has become a victim of plain cruelty and injustice. She has been robbed of her old self and has seen the rape of her village. She knows better than she did before; her eyes have been opened to the reality of the world. She has been forced to grown up.

Those men were sent to destroy her life and the lives of other innocent people. Mírima knows that despite his promise, she will not meet her father on the ship. He will not come for her. He is probably now dead; nothing but charred bones from defending their burning house.

She will not see her mother either. Tálith has sacrificed herself for her daughter. _She is probably dead by now too,_ Mírima thinks, _or barely alive._

No, there is none on board any of the ships of Elendil and his sons who will be there to hold Mírima and care for her. She now too is an orphan, like Zimrukhâd, alone in a vast world. Even if there was someone there for her, Mírima sees now that there will always be evil in the world to ruin her life and the lives of others.

Mírima is no longer a child, but still she is hurting like a child would. Alone, she desperately wants _ammê._

But what is this?

Mírima looks at Zimrukhâd wide eyed, the salt in the sea air adding to the sting from her tears. He has taken her hand in his, two cold hands entwined together, and he looks down upon her. Though his face is emotionless, she sees in his eyes a warm tenderness.

“You do not have to worry. I will look after you,” he says gently.

Mírima is silent for a few seconds, only staring at Zimrukhâd.

She is mentally berating herself for thinking of him the way she had. If it weren’t for him, she would have been dead.

Her lips tremble a little and then before Mírima can stop herself, she is in the boy’s arms, crying into his chest.

Mírima is not a child anymore…but she is still only nine years of age. She is still unstable like a babe when it first stands.

The sky soon starts to cry like Mírima, first lightly drizzling, and then battering heavily. The little ships in the tumults of water begin to sway uncertainly.

“Get below!” the mariners of Anárion’s ship shout to Mírima and others who shouldn’t really be there, because they were ordered a while ago to stay below deck.

Covering both of them with his jacket, Zimrukhâd carefully leads Mírima beneath the deck of the ship. Mírima is still crying, but the rain is hiding it. She feels ashamed of herself for the outburst.

Beneath the deck there are many others; widowed women with crying children, orphans, young couples, old couples, the remains of broken families. Aged men sit on their own in the corners, muttering and shaking their heads.

Mírima and Zimrukhâd find themselves a seat beside the bags of flour. Already sitting there is a group of young people, two boys and an older looking girl. One of the boys and the girl look the same – probably brother and sister.

Mírima sniffles and puts on a bold face. Zimrukhâd nods at them and shakes the boys’ hands. He seems to already know them.

“This is Mírima,” he says, pointing to her.

The girl smiles warmly at Mírima and moves her ragged shawl away from next to where she was seated.  
“You can sit here,” she says.

Mírima lamely smiles back and sits down next to the girl. Zimrukhâd and the boys start to talk with each other quietly, the girls listen to them.

She leans against the side of ship and feels the waves hitting the ship through the planks, along with the cold. Mírima’s only belongings were in the rucksack packed by Tálith, and that was now lying somewhere in the midst of the trees, dirty and cold, covered with rain water and perhaps Tálith’s blood. She is not wearing anything very warm either, and so she shivers silently with the cold of her wet clothes as she listens to the boys.

The girl looks down at her with a frown and offers her muddy, torn shawl.  
“For warmth?” she asks quietly, handing it to Mírima.

Mírima smiles feebly and takes the shawl, saying, “Thank you.”

“That is no problem,” the older girl says kindly.  
“Gimilbêth is my na-”

Suddenly from outside there is a large roar, and inside the ship screams follow. Everything seems to be rocking and toppling over and Mírima’s world seems to tip to the left. Gimilbêth is shrieking, and so is Mírima, as the ship then tips right and everything slides. Crying aloud, Zimrukhâd falls on top of Mírima. Screaming, she is crushed between the boy’s weight and hard wood.

The ship rocks the other way again and Zimrukhâd is thrown off of Mírima, landing hard against a wooden crate of goods. Mírima tries to hold onto something and finds herself grasping onto Gimilbêth.

“Hold on!” the girl screams, taking Mírima’s hand.

Suddenly Mírima feels wet, and from everyone else’s screams she can see that they too are feeling the moisture. Water has slipped from the deck into the ship and it drenches everyone who squirms to keep their place on the floor. It is icy cold and salty, and it sloshes in Mírima’s face, stinging her skin. With the taste and smell of the salt and the jolting of the ship, Mírima begins to feel sick and wants to vomit.

“What is happening?” she manages to wail at Gimilbêth while the ship tips again.

Gimilbêth is clutching onto Mírima’s hands, and is desperately trying to tie herself and Mírima to the hooks in the bulkhead of the ship with some chain and rope for some stability.

“I do not know!” she shouts back. “Here, hold onto the chain! Do not let go!”

Mírima nods and grabs onto the chain, wrapping it twice around her wrists. Now that she is somewhat stable she can see everyone else in the hold of the ship. Zimrukhâd and the boys are all struggling to hold onto a sliding crate. There are women sitting on the deck, trying to hold their children up above the water and trying not to slide with the ship.

The hatch, from where Mírima and Zimrukhâd entered below deck, opens and more water comes in. In staggers one of the mariners. He is coughing and drenched with water.

Mírima can hear thunder and a great wailing, deep and inhuman. The noise reminds her of mountains.

“Men!” the mariner shouts, standing up in the water and looking around. “We need more men to manage the ship! We need to leave now and we need more men to help us!”

Immediately many of the young men try to stand up in the rocking ship to volunteer. Zimrukhâd and the boys volunteer too. Gimilbêth’s brother crawls over to them and he shakily kisses his sister, saying, “I shall be back soon,” and then follows the stream of people exiting.

Zimrukhâd looks back to Mírima before he leaves too, and gives her a fleeting smile, and then disappears up the stairs to the surface of the ship.

The ship continues to jolt here and there, but not as much as it first did, as the ship moves away from the Isle. Mírima stares at the door with a frown. The mariners should be handling the ship better with their extra help, but she does not understand.

The mariner who came in said that they needed to leave. But why? Was not the ship safe enough?

“Why are we leaving the _Yôzâyan?_ ” she asks Gimilbêth beside her.

“Perhaps it is because of the storm,” the older girl answers.

Mírima is quiet with thought. She suddenly hates the ship. _Attû_ lied to her; he said that the ship would keep them safe. Mírima thought that it was a refuge from the evil men, not a cargo ship bearing them wherever the mariners wished.

“But I do not want to go,” she says to Gimilbêth.

Gimilbêth looks at her for a moment, pity in her eyes.  
“Neither do the rest of us, but evil has come upon the Isle. The _Anadûnê_ is not as it once was. We cannot stay here…if we do, then we shall perish.”

At the moment Mírima thinks that it is better to perish in the land she was born in than to start her life anew in an unknown land alone, without anyone there to love and care for her.

“Are you cold?” Gimilbêth asks, offering another dirty and ragged cloth.

There is still water seeping in from the deck of the ship and Mírima feels the cold. She shakes her head though. She wants Tálith’s dirty swathe, not Gimilbêth’s.

“Come,” Gimilbêth says, standing up with effort as the ship sways. “Let us sit on these crates so we do not get wetter.”

Mírima obediently stands up and follows Gimilbêth on top of the crates that are against the walls of the ship. She sits with her back to the wooden wall. The water is no longer splashing on Mírima’s face or spitting salt into her eyes, but she does not feel safe up on the crates while the ship is rocking.

Gimilbêth is smart and has chosen crates that have been tied to the wall. The other crates are sliding here and there, but not the ones they are on. She gives Mírima a small smile, sitting beside her and covering both of their legs with her ratty swathe. Mírima still does not feel safe. She will never feel safe until she is in the arms of Tálith or Huor. That will never be.

“It would be best if we held onto the chains, just in case,” Gimilbêth says, giving Mírima the iron bonds.

Mírima carefully twines them around her wrists and then slumps where she is. The girl was right to hold onto the chains, for just as Mírima lets her hands down with the chains, the ship jolts and everyone slides, everyone except Mírima and Gimilbêth on the crate.

From the top of the crate Mírima can see everyone in the room. The little children cling to each other stupidly and slide here and there with the water. The old women and men are huddled in a corner, offering each other warmth and comfort. Many of the women are alone, their men are on the deck helping the mariners steer the ship. All the babies are crying madly.

Mírima doesn’t know why they are crying. At least they still have their mothers to hold them.

Beside the crate she is seated on, there is a woman on the floor, hugging her daughter. Both of their faces are ruddy and they both look frightened. The little girl in the woman’s lap looks the same age as Mírima. Mírima stares down at them.

They remind her of Tálith and herself. Mírima wonders if they had someone like Huor in their family, who told them to come to the ship for safety, who stayed behind to guard their burning home.

“ _Ammê_ …I’m frightened,” the little girl whimpers in her mother’s arms.

The woman holds her child closer to her breast and kisses her brow.

Mírima’s bottom lip trembles and her eyes are glazed with tears as she stares at them. The stupid girl. What has she got to be afraid of?

“Hush my love…” the mother says soothingly, stroking her daughter’s matted hair. “We are safe now. Remember what _attû_ said?”

The mother too is being foolish with hope, Mírima thinks as she sniffs and blinks away the tears.

“Where is _attû_?”

“He must be on another ship, love.”

The woman’s voice sounds strained as she says the last sentence. Mírima can see tears in her eyes.

“I want to go home, _ammê._ I don’t like it here,” the girl cries.

Her mother holds the little girl tightly, kissing her again and rocking her like a babe in arms.

With tears, Mírima watches the mother and daughter. Slowly the girl drifts off to sleep in the strong and secure arms of her mother, despite the constant swaying of the ship and the roaring outside.

Mírima wishes she has someone to hold her and to assure her that everything will be fine, even though she is aware it will not. She has no one. Gimilbêth is a stranger. Zimrukhâd is also a stranger, but at least he is someone, even though Mírima does not particularly like him. He is the only person now that she has.

 

She tries to hide her face from Gimilbêth and rests her head on her bent knees, her eyes looking at the woman and her child beside her crate.

The little girl is asleep and the mother sits there motionlessly, her eyes closed and tears dribbling down her cheeks.

Mírima hears the prayer the woman mutters and she closes her eyes, listening to the words and pretending it is her _ammê_ who speaks the words:

_Let nothing disturb thee,_  
Nothing affright thee;  
All things are passing  
God never changeth;  
Patience endurance  
Attaineth to all things;  
Who God posseth  
Alone God sufficeth.

 

 

In her mind’s eye she sees Tálith whispering the same words as she lies on the forest floor where Mírima last saw her.

The grass about her mother’s body is fresh and emerald green, speckled with mauve and cream flowers, sweet smelling as the flowers of the Nísimaldar. There are fresh flowers in Tálith’s hair and she in dressed in a white gown. Mírima sees her mother as flawless and completely unstained, other than her tear-streaked cheeks.

Everything in the woods is silent except for Tálith, whispering her prayer to The One. She says the last line and then, with a sigh, she dies, a small smile upon her lips and her brows unworried, committing her spirit to He whom she placed all her trust in.

More jolts of furious water thrust the ship here and there. Beneath her, Mírima hears a deep groaning. She doesn’t know if it’s the ship that is groaning or if it is something else. The groaning continues and again Mírima is reminded of the mountains. There is more noise now, creaks and rumbles.

Evil has come upon the Isle? Perhaps the mountains have stepped on the feet of the river. Stepping on the feet of other people has always been an evil thing in Mírima’s eyes. It is also an evil thing in the river’s eyes. He gets angry with the mountains and calls with a deep voice to his friend, the sea, to aid him. The watery force then assails the mountains. Mírima plays out the little scenario she has devised in her head.

Little does she know that what she imagines is slowly becoming a reality for Tálith and all the others still on the Isle.

Mírima’s crying is not heard over the terror of the sea and the screams of the women and children.

Neither is Tálith’s as she tries to run. The cart was overturned when the ground first started to tremble and she ran as far as she could as the whole of the Isle violently shook and crumbled beneath her feet.

As her daughter imagines her, she is screaming prayers to The One to have mercy and to relieve her from the bonds of life.

Eru Ilúvatar hears her prayer. At the same moment Mírima imagines her mother saying the last lines of the prayer, a tree falls on top of Tálith and she is dead before the earth crumbles and the mouths of the sea opens to devour the land. Her body is crushed beneath the weight of the great trunk and as the world sinks, it all falls on top of her body. When the devastation is over, not even Uinen’s bright eyes will be able to find her body to mourn. Tálith dies cold, scared, dirty, bleeding and broken -- everything contrary to what Mírima imagines. But still, she dies.

With her face buried in her hands and her head shielded by her legs and knees, Mírima cries quietly to herself. The ship rocks, the ocean roars and the babies scream. She is not heard or noticed. She is only a girl, small and alone.

The woman still mutters the prayer beside the crates, and in her mind, Mírima mutters it too. Now that she has seen Tálith die in her mind’s eye, she knows that she is truly alone, alone like the nine ships of the Faithful in the vast ocean of battering hateful waves, fleeing from the horror of the fall of the _Anadûnê._

*******

**Notes:**

_ammê_ \- (Adûnaic) Mother  
 _att_ û – (Adûnaic) Father  
 _Yôzâyan_ – (Adûnaic) ‘Land of Gift’, a name of Númenor in Adûnaic  
 _Anadûnê_ \- (Adûnaic) ‘Westernesse’, a name of Númenor in Adûnaic.


End file.
